


If You're Gonna Ride in the Kentucky Derby...

by shirozora



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, I didn't sign up for this, M/M, an AU for an AU, horse racing AU, i don't even know what i'm doing, in which Jim Kirk is both a human and a Thoroughbred racehorse, things I regret immensely, what the ever-lovin' shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-23 02:07:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirozora/pseuds/shirozora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If you're gonna ride in the Kentucky Derby, you don't leave your prize stallion in the stable."</p><p>In which Jim Kirk is a racehorse, Christopher Pike is the owner-trainer of Enterprise Racing, Spock is the trainer's assistant, Nyota Uhura is Pike's financial adviser and sales agent, Leonard McCoy is a racetrack vet, Hikaru Sulu is an exercise rider, Pavel Chekov is an apprentice jockey, and Montgomery Scott is... Scotty (also, a farrier). And then there's the blue-eyed kid hanging around the stables claiming that the racehorse is his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Horse Named Starfleet Captain

**Author's Note:**

> During a recent rewatch of NuTrek Bones' grumpy line to Spock about Jim as a prize stallion latched onto my brain like a Yeerk (or face-hugger, take your pick) and _wouldn't let the fuck go_ ~~and this is before I get into this whole shebang about the horse being a symbol of masculine sexuality and virility, lol~~.
> 
> Trust me to tiptoe back into Star Trek fandom with a horse racing AU. And I thought my TRON horse racing AU was bad. 
> 
> ಠ_ಠ 
> 
>  
> 
>  **Obligatory Disclaimer:** There is a lot more to horses, racehorses, and horse racing than what I know, so please take everything I write with a grain of salt. The terminology, slang, and names of stakes races, racetracks, and sales operations I use are real. While this has been test-read by a friend unfamiliar with the sport/industry to make sure I don't confuse people too much, if you don't know something or have questions please _don't hesitate to ask_. I am more than happy to clarify for you.

Nyota Uhura picks him out at the Barretts October Yearling Sale. She notices a ruckus while watching the stride on a handsome Benchmark yearling and turns around to see a gangly red-gold colt nearly knock his handler to the ground. Others come to assist and eventually bring the colt back down to earth. Others around her - handlers, agents, trainers, owners - shake their heads, muttering that the yearling’s been nothing but trouble since he walked off the van two days ago and did nobody teach him manners?

She smirks at the implied challenge the colt offers and walks over to the older man keeping a firm grip on the colt’s lead shank.

“Mind if you walk him for me?” she asks.

She notes the way the man keeps shaking the colt’s head to keep him focused but pays far more attention to the colt’s smooth stride. She checks her catalog, marks the hip number, and informs the handler that she intends to have the colt scoped later.

* * *

“Forty-five grand? On this gangly banged up sonnuvabitch?”

“Language, Leonard,” Nyota says mildly. “He scoped clean, has good legs if you ignore the superficial scars, a deep chest, and a hell of a walk. Plus, Pike likes him.” 

She holds out her phone, showing the rather favorable photos she took and sent to her employer.

“Did you mention his attitude?” The vet rubs his left arm, grimacing at the bruise forming under the sleeve. “Nearly ripped my arm off.”

“He’s just a yearling,” she says and puts her phone away. “If you want to blame someone for his attitude go rant at Frank-”

“Why am I not surprised,” Leonard growls. “Man doesn’t know how to handle yearlings. Had to vet one of his two years ago; have x-rays of three fractured ribs to show for it.”

“I remember. Didn’t she win the Vanity last year?”

“Failing to see what that has to do with anything.”

“It doesn’t.” She pats him on the shoulder and leaves to check with the van driver.

* * *

Christopher Pike looks almost gleeful watching the new purchase unload from the van. Ever since he ended up in a wheelchair he’d relied on Nyota to head down to Barretts every year and find one that fit his program.

“What do you think, Mr. Spock?” he asks his assistant while one of his best grooms, Olsen, leads out a bright red-gold chestnut. 

“He appears to be in the middle of a growth spurt,” Spock says, studying the colt as it stamps the ground, snorting. “It would be wise to hold off until he’s stopped. Otherwise I find nothing out of place. Nyota has made a fine choice, and at below budget.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Pike says, watching the colt coil like a spring.

He can’t help but chuckle when the yearling launches skyward, hauling Olsen up to his toes.

* * *

His sire is the ill-fated My Dear George, a liver chestnut wonder who roared into prominence at the age of four with a string of impressive Grade 1 wins on the East Coast. He retired in September with a bowed tendon and was on stud duty for just three days the next spring before dying in his paddock of a ruptured aorta. He’d been a difficult breeder and the stud farm chalked it up to inexperience that he’d soon grow out of; of the five mares he covered only two carried to term.

His dam is an Iowan-bred Grade II runner, a golden chestnut named Crafty Winona. She bore her owner-breeder’s name to six wins in thirty-eight starts, a respectable record for a horse that practically grew up in her owner’s backyard. Her first foal was a flashy bright bay colt by Stormy Atlantic named Crafty Sam. Due to reasons known only by her owner she was barren the next two years before going to My Dear George’s court. She produced one of the two foals by him but rejected the knock-kneed chestnut mere hours after birth. She was later given away to a family looking for an off-the-track Thoroughbred to retrain as a showjumper while her colt went to California to be sold at auction despite his breeder’s son’s pleas.

* * *

“I consider it illogical that you keep refusing to submit a name,” Spock says, watching Olsen attach the two parts of a running martingale to the unnamed chestnut’s reins. The colt snorts, trying to tug his head up, but the straps stop him as intended. “He needs one if you plan to race him.”

“All in good time, Mr. Spock,” Pike says and gestures to the waiting exercise rider. “Sulu, why don’t you take him out for a slow jog around the track? A mile and a half should do it.”

“Yes, sir,” Hikaru Sulu says, strapping on his helmet. “Hope he’s not in the mood to toss me this time.”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Olsen warns.

Miraculously Sulu stays on after he swings up onto the saddle. The colt flicks his ears back and forth, bucks once, and then allows Olsen to lead him out onto the track.

“You know,” Pike says, “I actually know the woman who bred him.”

“Do you?”

“She specialized in steeplechasers. Then she got married and changed tack. She left the game after her husband died a couple years ago and sold off all of her horses. I should call her, tell her I have one of hers.”

Spock just nods, keener on watching Sulu try to rein in his fiery charge as they half-jog, half-canter around the Tapeta track.

* * *

“Did Pike give ‘m a name yet?” Leonard asks while examining the unsightly scrape on the colt’s left hip. It’s uglier than serious, so he reaches for the antibiotic ointment in the kit he threw together specifically for the colt’s over-reactive immune system.

“If he did he’s not telling anyone,” Nyota replies. “Has a high opinion of him.”

“Not sure how one has a high opinion of a horse that doesn’t know how to take care of itself - hey!” He slaps the colt’s muzzle. “No biting the doctor.”

The colt snorts defiantly as the vet resumes cleaning the scrape but doesn’t try to snap at him again.

“I think he likes you,” she says and can almost hear Leonard’s eyeroll. She definitely hears him curse as the colt whips his tail at the man’s face.

* * *

Starfleet Captain debuts at Golden Gate Fields with an apprentice jockey with a heavy Russian accent perched on his back and donning blinkers that Pike thinks will help him focus given his tendency to look around. He couldn’t have made a worse decision; Starfleet Captain bolts out of the gate and runs like his tail’s on fire - looks like it, too, a curtain of red-gold whipping at his heels as he gallops over the synthetic surface - until he tires and is easily passed by half the field with half a furlong to run. Even as Pike mentally kicks himself for supercharging the colt’s focus he admires Starfleet Captain’s sheer will to win; the colt comes back with a late surge and misses by just a head.

“Amazing!” Pavel Chekov rambles to him much later. “Shoulda felt him when he decided he wasn’t gonna lose after all; it was - it was like-” He exclaims in Russian. “I like him, Mr. Pike; can I ride him the next time?”

“Ain’t happening, least not for three months,” Leonard says two days later. “Bucked shins; he ran way too hard. Who’s the idiot who put blinkers on him in the first place?”

Pike raises his hand. “That’ll be me, Dr. McCoy.”

“I may be a vet, not a trainer, but I wouldn’t put blinkers on him again. Makes him too rank and too eager for his damn legs to handle.”

“Why don’t you tell the horse himself?” Pike says with an easy smile. “At least he’s figured out what the game’s all about.”

Leonard snorts and turns to glare at the skewed triangular star on the colt’s forehead. “Hear that? You’re still growing so don’t make me ground your fool ass just ‘cause you don’t know when to stop.”

Starfleet Captain flicks an ear in his direction and then attacks his bale of hay enthusiastically. The vet rolls his eyes and moves to the next occupied stall.

* * *

After two more close losses Starfleet Captain claws out a victory at a mile and a eight four days after New Year’s. Pike likes what he sees; the colt is easier to handle with the addition of the cheeker noseband, has grown into his gangly frame, and moves about with more confidence. There’s no use training him out of his habit of making life extraordinarily difficult for everyone, though.

This morning the colt lashed out, knocking Olsen clean off his feet, and almost ran off. Luckily Spock’s quick reflexes snagged the loose reins; while others helped a visibly shaken Olsen to his feet Spock kept a tight hold on Starfleet Captain, not flinching even as the colt huffed and stomped about.

“Either assign me another horse or I’m out,” the groom tells Pike much later. “I don’t care how promising you think he is, I’m not rubbing that demon no more.”

The four other grooms in his employ suddenly look very much like they wanted to be anywhere but here. Pike sighs inwardly as he tries to decide the best course of action, and then Janice Rand quietly clears her throat. “Some kid was here the other day, wondering if he could get a job.”

“Doing what, exactly?”

She shrugs. “Dunno. Said he’d do anything as long as he got paid for it.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“That we didn’t need an extra hand but Jerry’s barn might.” She frowns. “He insisted on working here, though.”

Weird. The kind of people that wander about the backstretch looking for work aren’t generally picky about _who_ they work for, and Pike is just a local face with an extraordinarily efficient team that loves what it does and helps him stay above the red.

“Well, if you see him again ask if he knows how to take care of a horse,” he says and steels himself for several days of rubbing down his wayward colt.

* * *

There’s talk of putting Starfleet Captain on the road to the Triple Crown after he wins his next race by daylight just two weeks after his first victory. It’s just a matter of making sure he’s firing on all cylinders by the time the California Derby rolls in.

So naturally the colt develops an allergic reaction to something in his stall the day before the draw and has Dr. McCoy scowling something fierce at the mild case of hives on his neck and shoulders.

“Damn it, Cap, you gotta have a reaction to _everything_?” he grumbles. Bute is out of question and the first time he tried dex the colt developed a reaction to _that_. At this point any form of medication is grounds for keeping the horse out of competition until the drugs clear out of his system, and he knows how much this stable wants to see the horse run.

“S’not even that serious of a reaction,” an unfamiliar voice says behind him, words punctuated by the distinct crunch of an apple being eaten, “so why not just rub some aloe on it and wait until after the race?”

Starfleet Captain nearly cracks Leonard’s skull open swinging his head around to the source of the voice, some tall bruised bright-eyed kid chomping on an apple while leaning against the stall doorway. Leonard has never seen him before and has half a mind to tell him to scram but the kid produces another apple from the pocket of his dusty leather jacket and Starfleet Captain lumbers over to snatch it out of his hand.

“Who let you in here?” Leonard finally asks.

“Uh, no one. I hopped the fence.” The kid rubs the colt’s forehead and brushes aside his forelock, and the horse just _lets him_ without the usual fuss. Leonard feels a bit out of balance; who the hell is this guy?

“What do you want, kid?” 

Said kid shrugs. “A job, maybe? Mucking stalls, hotwalking horses, anything. Grew up on a farm back in Iowa, so I know what I’m doing.”

Huh. There’s something funny about this stranger and Starfleet Captain originating from the same state. Leonard shrugs it off. Coincidence. “You’ll have to talk with Pike if you wanna do anything. I’m just one of the vets.”

“Does that mean you can take a look at my face?” the kid asks, gesturing at the bruises and scabs.

“I’m a _vet_ , not a doctor. Go find someone who’s actually qualified to take care of people.”

He feels a certain amount of shame soon as the words tumble out of his mouth but the kid brushes them off and instead says, “Sure. Point me in the direction of Pike?”

“His office is that way.” Leonard nods to his left. 

“Thanks.” The kid makes to go, hesitates, then says, “Name’s Jim.”

“McCoy. Leonard McCoy.”

“Nice meeting you, Len,” Jim says, gives him a mock salute, pets Starfleet Captain’s muzzle, and saunters off.

Leonard stares at the now-empty space and then mutters, “What the fuck was that.”

The colt snorts and then nearly crushes his left foot with a well-placed stomp.

* * *

“Of all the people to show up at my doorstep,” Pike says, watching Sulu jog Miss Farragut around the Tapeta track. “Does your mother know you’re here?”

“I’m over eighteen, I don’t need to tell her anything,” Jim Kirk retorts. “Look, Mr. Pike-”

“Call me Chris.” He senses Spock raise an eyebrow at that.

“Fine. I just want a job, Chris. I’ll do anything, I swear. You know you don’t have to teach me anything.”

Pike can already hear his assistant trainer saying, _“Just because you knew his parents doesn’t mean you’re obligated to give him a job. These are racehorses and require the utmost care and attention.”_

His devil’s advocate shouldn’t sound like Spock. Anyway.

“You’re in luck,” he says while stopping his timer. He glances at the number and smiles in satisfaction. Miss Farragut is ready to go. “Got a horse without a groom and nobody wants to rub him. Think you’re up for it?”

“That bad, huh?”

There’s a shout from the racetrack and he looks up to see a gray horse dump its rider and bolt, an outrider at its heels. Luckily Miss Farragut is at the opposite end of the track but there are a couple horses and oblivious exercise riders in its path. He raises his fingers to his lips and whistle; the riders’ heads turn to him and he gestures at the loose horse. They quickly take their horses away from its path and watch another outrider come out to catch the gray.

“Crisis averted,” Spock says quietly.

Jim rubs his left ear. “You whistle really loud, you know that?”


	2. Golden Gate Fields

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Banged this one out quick to usher in the new year. Hope you like. Again, if you have any questions don't hesitate to ask.

The very second thing Jim does as a new employee is flirt with the really hot chick who always visits Pike’s office in the morning and appears to be addicted to her phone. He flashes a disarming grin that she acknowledges with a dismissive glance before returning to her phone. 

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Do you at least want to know my name before you reject me?” he asks as he casually leans against the wall next to a half-eaten bale of hay.

“I’m fine without it,” she replies. She doesn’t look up from her phone.

“You _are_ fine without it,” he says. “Name’s Jim Kirk. And you are...?”

She finally looks at him again, flicking her eyes up and down like she’s judging his conformation, and he shifts uncomfortably under the scrutiny.

“Uhura,” she says, “and that’s all you need to know.”

She turns her attention back to her phone, smiles at the screen, and leaves.

“You know,” someone says, and Jim jerks up, banging his head against the wall, “if you wanna pick up chicks you’d have better luck at SF or Berkeley. Here, all we care about are the horses.”

Jim scowls as he rubs the back of his head. It’s the exercise rider that Pike likes and he looks way too entertained by what just happened.

“Yeah, sure, I knew that,” Jim mutters. Then, “Hey, you think Chris’ll put me on a horse?”

* * *

The California Derby is an ungraded stakes restricted to three-year-olds at a distance of eight and a half furlongs and carries a purse worth a hundred grand. It serves as the main local prep for the El Camino Real Derby, a Grade 3 race and the nearest, clearest goal for Starfleet Captain.

“He only needs to place in the top three,” Pike tells Spock while Sulu takes the colt out to warm up before a five-furlong breeze. “Don’t hurt your head if he ends up not fully cranked for the race; all we need is for him to show that he can run with the big guns, or whatever passes for them around here.”

“My head is just fine, thank you,” Spock replies, “although I am concerned that he’s hitting another growth spurt that could put additional stress on his legs.”

“You know what they say - you get sore shins once and never again. But if something happens between now and Santa Anita, then we’ll stop on him, skip the Triple Crown, and worry about the summer races.”

“I hope you’re sincere,” Spock says, “knowing how determined you are to find a horse worthy of the Triple Crown. Many owners and trainers will push their horses beyond their limits simply to make it to the starting gate at Churchill-”

Pike gestures at him. “I know, I know. Don’t think I learned the last time?”

“We were lucky he recovered well enough to be someone’s leisure horse,” Spock replies and there’s a certain coolness to his already neutral tone. 

Archer At Bay is still a sore subject between them. The gorgeous rangy gray was a near thing that Pike thought could take him to Louisville for a chance at the Roses but he fractured a leg in the middle of the Santa Anita Derby. For weeks Spock had voiced his doubts but Pike couldn’t - wouldn’t - hear him out; of course the colt was firing on all cylinders, of course he was done growing, of course his odd way of moving at a gallop wouldn’t affect him especially when they transitioned from a forgiving synthetic surface to a harder dirt track.

Of course.

* * *

Leonard’s day starts out well enough.

Show up at the backstretch at the asscrack of dawn to deal with paperwork and the horses that are either due for monthly check up or plodding through some kind of minor ailment. 

Be available at the paddock by the time the horses entered in the first race walk into the receiving barn to their saddles strapped on. 

Scratch the 2 horse from Race 3 after it kicks the side of its stall and starts limping. 

Raise an eyebrow at the damned kid who’s grinning at _him_ while walking the disturbingly calm Starfleet Captain over to the saddling ring. 

Listen to the track announcer declare that while the unfortunately named Cupcake Alley won the California Derby the real winner was the hard luck loser, Starfleet Captain, who was trapped at the rail all the way around the clubhouse turn and the backstretch, came four wide around the far turn, and was closing steadily when the finish line abruptly appeared. 

Continue monitoring the horses until the last race is run and then go hang out with the coworker overseeing the extraction of blood and urine samples of all runners.

“Apparently the owner’s daughter named the poor sucker and he didn’t have the heart to change it before sending it to the Club,” Geoff tells him later, after shipping the samples to lab. “Better hope he doesn’t end up winning the Derby. We’d be the laughing stock of sports the rest of the year.”

“I can only imagine,” Leonard drawls and passes Geoff his flask.

“So,” Geoff says after a peaceful moment of silence and shared bourbon, “Olsen actually left?”

“Apparently. Said he wasn’t looking after Cap anymore, then told Pike later that he quit, wants to find a ‘more respectable job’. Pike’s words, not mine.”

“Shame; he knew his way around horses. Explains the new kid.”

Leonard shrugs. “He won’t last long. Says he grew up on a farm in Iowa and knows how to look after them but he doesn’t belong here. Not even sure why the hell he showed up in the first place.”

“Don’t we all ask ourselves that,” Geoff says quietly and passes back the half-empty flask.

Leonard stops himself from rubbing his left ring finger where a gold band used to be.

* * *

“Two wins and a couple of impressive seconds,” Pike says. “Good enough to get our names into _the Blood-horse_.”

He hands his tablet over to Spock and wheels out of his office. “I’m giving you permission to crank him up. We’re winning the El Camino and then taking him south to Santa Anita.”

* * *

“Lucky for you lot,” the farrier rambles as he picks up Starfleet Captain’s near hind, “he dinnae do more than throw a shoe. Look at his feet! I’ve never seen the walls grow so quick, and they’re in such good condition, too. In fact, he could run barefooted and win. I’d bet my house on it.”

“Wish we could, Scotty,” Pike says.

“What, bet my house? Don’t think so. Now a crate of Talisker...”

The colt snorts and shakes his head; Jim jerks at his lead shank and shushes him.

“Just the usual care, then?” Scotty asks while carefully prying of the shoe.

“Whatever you think will help him run. No toe grabs.”

“Heard you the first hundred times. No toe grabs for the captain, no toe grabs for Missy Farragut, no toe grabs for The Number One-”

Starfleet Captain whips Scotty in the face with his tail.

* * *

Jim watches Starfleet Captain and Sulu go by from his position at the rail, eyes following the colt’s arched neck and bounding stride. Sulu appears frozen on his back but Jim can see the strain in his arms as he tries to hold the colt to an easy gallop and not an all out run. Today is damp and foggy as hell but the colt is streaking sparks, coat burnished copper and bright. He watches the duo disappear into the mists, Starfleet Captain huffing as he tugs at his bit, and sighs. He misses riding horses; his mother forbade him from saddling the old pony he owned with Sam after the accident and by the time he was old enough to make his own decisions only two horses were left and neither of them were up for riding.

After a while not riding a horse became the habit but watching the horses go by he feels that tug, that need to get up on a horse’s back and let it carry him as far as it can go.

“Helluva sight,” the vet says somewhere behind him.

“What, the fog? I agree.”

“No, you ass,” Leonard grouses as he ambles up to the rail. Jim spots a metallic flash and raises an eyebrow at the flask in the vet’s hand. “The horses. Cap, specifically.”

“Isn’t it a bit early?” he says.

“Never too early to drink,” Leonard says and unscrews it. He swallows a mouthful, twists the cap on, then frowns, takes it off, and hands it over to Jim. He grins as he takes it and tips the contents into his mouth. The whiskey is smooth and strong, and he coughs a little as he hands it back.

“So,” he says in a slightly watery voice, “what brings you out here at ass o’clock in the morning, doc?”

“Some damn horse got cast in her stall. Got her legs stuck under the divider while rolling in the hay. Luckily she got away with just some scrapes on her forelegs. Her damn groom was nowhere in sight. If Miss Uhura hadn’t heard the commotion who knows what might’ve happened.”

He nods while watching a burly reddish colt - Cupcake Alley, the most unfortunately named racehorse on this side of the country - lumber by, working the Tapeta track with stocky legs. “So Uhura’s her last name?”

“She never gave you her first?” Leonard asks. “How the hell did you get on her shit list so fast?”

“I didn’t do anything! Well, I asked her out for drinks. She looked like she could use one judging by how she’s trying to kill her phone with her thumbs.”

“That’s her job,” the vet drawls out. “And she’s got a boyfriend, so don’t even bother.”

Jim sighs. “Most people appreciate a little harmless flirting from me.”

“Miss Uhura ain’t most people. This barn ain’t most people. Everyone on this _racetrack_ ain’t most people.”

“True. Most vets stick to house pets. So why’d you pick the racetrack?”

Leonard caps his flask while mulling over an answer. “Nothing stranger than a thousand pounds of muscle and bone pounding on the turf on stick-thin legs. People look at a horse and think grace, power, freedom. I look at a horse and wonder how the hell the entire genus didn’t accidentally kill itself.” He stops to watch Starfleet Captain go by again, red-gold coat flecked with sweat and foam. Jim finds himself staring at the long fingers wrapped around the flask. “It’s my job to put them back together and make sure all of their parts work. They put themselves out there for us, I might as well return the favor by keeping them sound and healthy. It’s the least they deserve.”

“Very noble of you. And I think that’s the most I ever heard you say about anything.”

“You asked,” the vet mutters but his ears do look a little pink.

The fog is thinning out and Jim can see Starfleet Captain canter around the far turn, neck still arched. Sulu looks exhausted. Jim grins as he jogs up to them. Sulu slows the colt down to a brisk walk and waves to him with a shaking arm.

“I don’t think I can feel my fingers,” the exercise rider confesses. “Thought he was gonna rip my arms off.” He then pitches his voice so that the approaching Spock can hear. “I think he needs a blowout before the race; he’s too full of himself.”

Starfleet Captain looks the part, prancing in place while pulling hard at the reins. Spock’s eyes flick over the horse and his mouth thins. “He never needed one-”

“Look at him,” Jim interrupts. “He’s gonna lose it if we don’t let off some steam. We have, what, six days before the race? Pull a Charles Whittingham and breeze a mile four days out. Or have him run four furlongs all out two days before.”

Everyone stares at him, with both Spock and Leonard cocking eyebrows. They’re quite impressive, Jim has to admit, though only Leonard comes close to matching Stephen Colbert’s legendary eyebrow raise.

“Mr. Pike put me in charge of his conditioning, not you. He asked me to have him ready for the El Camino Real Derby and he is. Daily gallops should suffice.”

“But you heard Hikaru and he’s the one on the horse, not you. I know you don’t want to shake up the schedule so close to an important race but he’s... ever tried the Menthos and Diet Coke experiment?”

“ _What_?”

“I fail to see what that has to do with Starfleet Captain-”

Jim dismisses their confusion with a wave and gestures towards the colt. “You mix the two together and the whole thing goes off like baking soda and vinegar. That’s him right now. You gotta loosen the cap a bit and let out some steam or the whole thing blows up in your face. I should know; it happened to me.”

He can’t help but grin wickedly at the memory and Sulu laughs outright. Still, Spock appears unimpressed, even a bit annoyed.

“Horses prefer a routine, if you didn’t already know,” Spock says flatly. “Taking him out of that routine because he exhibits the same amount of energy as he usually does on the track will upset him. The stress will have a detrimental effect on his ability to race and _win_.”

“I know, Spock, but have you seen him when he’s not doing something? If he’s not out here he’s back in the barn making up trouble. He needs to run, he - if you don’t let him blow off some steam, even for three-eighths of a mile, he’s going to be hell by the time they reach the gate. He’s gonna get rank, try to run everyone off their feet in the first five furlongs, and have no gas for the homestretch. If you wanna win the Derby, you need to take a few risks.”

“Breezing a horse just days before the race is too much of a risk. You are correct that he needs to run but if he’s allowed to let loose he’ll give his all right here, right now. Our job is to make sure he doesn’t expend himself before the competition-”

Jim throws his hands up in the air. “Fine! But don’t say I didn’t warn you, don’t say Hikaru told you _nothing_ -”

“You’re a new hire, Mr. Kirk, and it’s very easy to find someone to replace you-”

Heat flares in his chest. No, he came this far, he’s not leaving Starfleet Captain over this. “Are you threatening me?”

He shrugs off the hand that grips his shoulder but steps back when Starfleet Captain suddenly leans into the space between him and Spock and whiffs at the handful of mints tucked into his left pocket.

“Come on, Jim,” Leonard says quietly and a hint of a Southern drawl seeps in, warm and soothing. “You two can fight this out later; the horse comes first.”

Right. What was that paraphrased quote his father always said? Always do right by the horse and the people will figure themselves out? He clenches his jaw, glowers at Spock for good measure, and then clips a lead shank onto the colt’s bridle and leads him to the chute.

“What do you think?” he asks while Sulu unsaddles Starfleet Captain.

Sulu shrugs. “You’re both right, but the El Camino’s just a few days away. Try talking to him afterwards or take it up with Pike himself.”

* * *

“What’s on your mind?”

Spock blinks, then unfolds his arms and turns to Nyota. “I’m wondering if my logic is not sound.”

“Oh?” she says. “That’s a new one.”

He gestures to the chestnut horse bounding around the track, pulling hard at the reins. “My instructions were to have him ready to win the race which, as you know, is not a guarantee. I trained him as I saw fit, as we’ve always seen fit, and yet... his groom and Mr. Sulu may have a point.”

One didn’t need a horseman’s eye or at least a decade’s worth of experience to see how unruly Starfleet Captain has become. The training regimen he and Pike established once the colt proved he could really run was meant to keep him in peak condition and to let him know when he’s about to race; muscles ripple under the red-gold coat and he gallops with piston-like precision, signaling his readiness, but there’s a wild look in his eyes and the tense bow of his neck that suggests that if Sulu even thinks about loosening the reins he’ll bolt, jump the fence, and run wild into traffic.

“Well I don’t know about the groom,” Nyota says dismissively,” but what did Hikaru say?”

“That we may have to resort to an unorthodox method of training to keep him from ruining all chances of winning his race. I have not discussed it with Mr. Pike yet but... should I have him breeze three furlongs tomorrow?”

“The race is this Saturday.”

“I know, but if he proves too rank and uses himself up too early in the race we’ll lose all chance of making it to Churchill Downs, and you know how much Mr. Pike wants to be there.”

She grimaces. The memory of their last attempt is just as sharp, especially as she was the one who found Archer At Bay at Fasig-Tipton’s Florida Two-Year-Old Sales. He reaches over and curls his index and middle fingers around hers.

“I need some advice, Nyota. Please.”

“You don’t want to talk to Mr. Pike.”

“He gave me permission to do what I saw necessary. I think, after five years with him, it wouldn’t-”

“Okay. If you insist on keeping your pride intact, then talk with Hikaru. He’s the one _on_ the horse, he can read them just by sitting on them. There’s nothing wrong with asking others for advice, you know.”

Spock sighs. “I know.” He watches Sulu slow Starfleet Captain to a jog with some force and then turns to head down the stairs towards the chute that leads out to the racetrack. “Tonight?”

She nods and kisses his cheek. “I’ll see you later.”

* * *

Attention always turns to Golden Gate Fields when the El Camino Real Derby comes up. A Grade 3 at a mile and an eighth on the Tapeta track, it offers a purse of $150,000 and hope for the winner to proceed along the West Coast’s road to Churchill Downs. The race hasn’t produced any notable winners lately but one never knows if the horse that steps up to the plate will become either the latest superstar or fad.

The current buzz is not around the winner of the California Derby or most of the field lining up at the gate, one that consists mostly of low-level local horses looking to make the jump up in class or pull an upset. The horse people are talking about is Starfleet Captain because he breezed three furlongs in thirty-five and change two days before the race. The handicappers and the _Daily Racing Forum_ all agree that this sudden change in routine and the incredibly fast time will take the wind out of the promising colt’s sails and he won’t factor into the finish. The odds go down on Cupcake Alley and a two-time winner named Napa Grand Duke, and Montgomery Scott gleefully unloads a grand on Starfleet Captain’s 12-1 odds at the betting window. 

“Just you watch,” he tells everyone around him and shoulders his way to the nearest screen to watch the horses load into the gate.

The El Camino Real Derby starts with the 5 horse stumbling out of the gate. The jockey on the gelding to the 5’s right jerks his horse away and right into Starfleet Captain’s path. The two horses collide and bounce away, with Starfleet Captain careening into the middle of the track and the gelding clipping heels with the recovering 5 horse. The rest of the field gets away clean, with Cupcake Alley sitting off of the frontrunning Napa Grand Duke.

Starfleet Captain trails the pack into the clubhouse turn, running on the wrong lead but not fighting his jockey for once. Chekov is motionless on his back, letting him settle into an easy rhythm as the field enters the backstretch. His stride lengthens and he starts picking off the laggers. Up front Napa Grand Duke maintains a half-length lead over the burly Cupcake Alley as the duo slowly separate themselves from the rest. They enter the far turn first, followed by the 5, the gelding, and Starfleet Captain. 

By the time they hit the homestretch Starfleet Captain and the gelding both pass the tiring 5 horse but the gelding is no match for the long-striding chestnut. Starfleet Captain easily shakes him off and zeroes in on Cupcake Alley and Napa Grand Duke. The two wrestle for the lead while the chestnut rapidly closes the gap between them. The wire is closing in on them and Starfleet Captain is at Cupcake Alley’s heels and the crowd starts screaming encouragement to their favorites. 

Chekov taps Starfleet Captain on the withers with his whip once. The colt appears to coil, gathering himself for that final push, and then blows by the two favorites as if they were standing still. The official win margin is a half-length, with Cupcake Alley beating Napa Grand Duke out of show by a head, but all anyone really remembers is watching Starfleet Captain bolt into the clubhouse turn, putting even more distance between himself and the rest of the field even though the race is over. Two outriders have to go out and catch him before he reaches the backstretch.

Scott walks out with twelve grand and promises Pike a bottle of the very best Scotch. Uhura kisses Spock at the winner’s circle, and a speechless Kirk stares at them, jaw unhinged. Then Starfleet Captain rears, almost unseating Chekov, and tries to make for the racetrack.

* * *

Morning finds the crew congregated in Pike’s office, passing around the DRF’s front page and a tablet featuring _The Blood-horse_ ’s website. They’re not the main headline; the El Camino Real Derby may be a Grade 3 race and an official part of the Road to the Triple Crown but the San Vicente Stakes that’s running later today down in SoCal holds more weight and prestige in the eyes of the media. Uhura already looks to be a phone call away from ripping the DRF staff a new one.

Pike chuckles as he folds the DRF and passes it to Rand. “They’re calling it a weak renewal. Can’t blame them; Golden Gate hasn’t produced a legitimate Derby contender since Archer At Bay.”

Kirk makes an outraged noise while peering over Sulu’s shoulder to read the _Blood-horse_ ’s write-up of the race. Its staff writer was more forgiving of the race’s perceived lack of quality and quicker to note both Starfleet Captain’s unorthodox training regimen and his actual performance in the race. 

“Well, I guess we’ll just have to prove them wrong,” Pike continues. “Mr. Spock, call Komack’s barn and ask if they have room for Starfleet Captain and Miss Farragut. We’re going to Santa Anita Park.”


	3. Santa Anita Park

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anything - 
> 
> I AM SO SORRY FOR GETTING CARRIED AWAY WITH THE HORSE RACING BUSINESS THAT WAS NOT THE PLAN I DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED I DIDN'T SIGN UP FOR THIS FORGIVE ME IF I END UP BORING THE HELL OUT OF YOU

The chilly February wind blows but Starfleet Captain remains unruffled, just snorts and pulls at his reins as Sulu guides him around the clubhouse turn, jogging him in the wrong direction. Pike is a firm believer in spending at least forty percent of a horse’s training regimen running clockwise to even out the stress it puts on its legs. It does require careful navigation and heightened awareness so as to not accidentally collide with another horse running counter-clockwise.

Spock studies his charge with a keen eye, taking in every little step, every flick of the ear, every bob of the head and flick of the tail. If they’re to reach the starting gate for the Santa Anita Derby in April they need to know that Starfleet Captain can handle a dirt track. Not all horses transition from a synthetic surface to a dirt one and Pike’s dream of reaching Churchill Downs could end with the colt’s very next race.

A dark horse jogs by, wearing the telltale saddle cloth of the veteran trainer Bob Baffert. Stellar Starbound is the current favorite for the San Felipe Stakes and one of the leading three year olds in the country. Spock runs through the stats, facts, and Ragozin figures in his head, watches the powerfully built colt carefully to assess his readiness compared to Starfleet Captain’s. 

Kirk leans against the rail next to him, watching Stellar Starbound coolly pass by a huffing and sweating Starfleet Captain.

“So who’s that bastard?” he asks.

“Our competition,” Spock says. “He won the Robert B. Lewis Stakes. It appears that Baffert doesn’t have him at optimum fitness levels for the San Felipe but considering how easily he won his previous race he won’t need it.”

“Yeah? Well he hasn’t met our horse yet. Bet you fifty he’ll run the guy off his feet.”

Spock resists the uncharacteristic urge to roll his eyes.

* * *

Nyota turns the page of her copy of the DRF while waiting for Spock. Her lip curls upward at the columnists’ rambling praise of the horses on the East Coast, including last year’s champion two year old colt and recent Withers victor Narada. Baffert’s Stellar Starbound gets a paragraph’s worth of words; Starfleet Captain and Napa Grand Duke, the only other horse from Golden Gate Fields to join him on the Triple Crown trail, share a sentence.

“So,” Jim says as he spills out of Starfleet Captain’s stall, “what’s your take on Narada? Think he’ll be the next Street Sense? The next Easy Goer? Or one of a million two year old champs that flop hard as a three year old?”

“I need to see him run in the Wood Memorial,” she says. “You can’t knock his title, and he did win the Withers by six.”

“Most champion two year olds can’t carry their speed beyond a mile,” he says and pulls an apple out of his pocket for the colt to chomp on. 

“He has the pedigree and conformation. Picked him out at the Saratoga sales for Mr. Romul myself.”

“So you were deep in the enemy’s counsel. Anything you wanna share?”

“Did you just quote _The Two Towers_ at me?”

He grins and produces another apple. He holds it out to her but she glares at him so he takes it and his hand back to rub its red-green surface against his shirt. “Maybe. Narada doesn’t have the conditioning. Ayel’s about as bad as the Pletcher worshippers - even if his win percentage is ridiculously good.”

“If you’re gonna start with the meds and bubble wrap argument-”

“Old hat. It’s a winning combination of meds, target-training, and owners with pockets deeper than a black hole.”

“Whatever. For most people, the point is to be at the starting gate. Winning the Derby’s just a cherry on top.”

“And people wonder why America’s racing industry’s been so shitty.”

She turns the page and reads an analysis of the upcoming Santa Anita Handicap. “Been there, argued that.”

A blinkered horse walks by with a jockey perched on his back. Jim notes and files away his stiff stride and offset knees, then turns and gives Starfleet Captain the rest of his apple.

“So,” he says, shimmying up to perch on the stack of bales next to Nyota. “What’s your role in this?”

“I’m Pike’s financial advisor and-”

“I know that. But Pike’s not here and Spock’s the assistant trainer. What are _you_ doing here?”

“I’m his eyes and ears and sometimes face,” she says. “Spock may be the one overseeing the horses’ training but I hear things and I see things. That horse that just walked by, Red Hood? Bad feet; everyone knows but nobody talks. Dirt stings him but he’s wicked fast and his owner can’t smell anything besides roses. He’ll go to the front but the race is too long and his feet will kill him. Figuratively, not literally. The East Coast shipper gets new equipment, new jockey, new everything, but he’ll always play bridesmaid, groom says he doesn’t have the guts. That’s a third of the field.”

Jim whistles. “Why aren’t you working for HRTV or the Racing Form?”

“Because Pike has more sense than these idiots,” she says and folds up her DRF copy, “and this is the job I want. Besides, you really think they want me around?”

He makes a show of thinking about it. “No. You’ll eat them alive.”

“Exactly.”

* * *

“‘lo?”

_“Lenny! Hi, how are you?”_

“ _What the fu_ \- Jim? Do you know what time it is?”

_“For you to get a watch.”_

“It’s... almost three _in the morning_ , damn it, why are you up? What the hell is that in the background?”

_“Have you been to Santa Anita Park? There’s a Dave & Buster’s and a huge freakin’ mall right next to it. How cool is that?”_

“Please tell me someone’s there with you.”

_“Hikaru, but I think I lost him. I’m over eighteen, by the way, I don’t need a chaperone.”_

“I’m pretty sure neither Pike nor Spock condone partying at night.”

_“‘m not partying. Just drinking and playing skee ball. No harm in that.”_ A pause. “ _Well, I_ was _but it closed._ ”

“Kid, where are you?”

_“I think I walked into_ Saturday Night Fev - _hello, ladies.”_

“... my damn bones are too old for this shit. And you’d better drink water before you hit the hay.”

_“Funny, ‘cause my job involves lots and lots of hay-”_

* * *

He drives himself down to Arcadia at Pike’s request because the Lord only knows what might happen if one of the trackside vets doesn’t check their paperwork and sticks Starfleet Captain with a needle full of something allergic. Damn horse has way more allergies than any equine ought to; Leonard’s halfway convinced he can write an entire case study on the horse.

He checks in the nearby Motel 6 and takes his lukewarm bitter black Starbucks with him to Santa Anita Park to check in. He explains that he’s there for Pike’s horses but is also available to all trainers and horses residing at the backstretch. Once he gets his pass he walks to the barns, promptly gets lost, and asks five different people for directions to Komack’s.

“Dr. McCoy,” a familiar voice calls to him as he draws near. He smiles when Nyota appears, looking as flawless as ever.

“Nyota,” he says. “How are you?”

“Just the usual business,” she says. “Been looking at some of the claiming races listed this weekend for Pike; he’s feeling confident enough to expand his stable, which is refreshing since the horses here are ten times better than up at Golden Gate but don’t tell him that.”

“Just as long as the horse isn’t allergic to every damn thing it comes into contact with,” he warns. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

“Clocking Miss Farragut’s seven panels. What are you up to?”

“Checking in on our dear captain,” he remarks and wonders at the secretive smile on Nyota’s face.

“Okay,” she says quietly like they shared some private thing. “See you for lunch?”

He nods, quirks a curious eyebrow at her receding figure, and then walks into the barn. He nods to a couple grooms and their charges, dodges two barn cats, and finally spots Starfleet Captain’s stall. Or rather, he spots Starfleet Captain’s head sticking out of his current home; the horse is dozing on his feet and bits of hay stick out of his mouth.

“Lazy ass,” he grumbles as he draws near. He comes to a standstill in front of the stall and his right eyebrow touches his hairline. 

Starfleet Captain sways on his feet as he keeps a steady vigil over Jim’s curled form. The kid’s fast asleep, using his arms to pillow his head. Leonard glances up and down the barn before setting his coffee and kit on the ground.

“Jim?” he says. “Kid? Hey, wake up.”

He knows better than to startle a sleeping horse but that cannot be healthy or sanitary and why is Jim sleeping in a horse’s stall instead of a motel room? He says Jim’s name again but it’s the horse that flicks his ears, opens his eyes, and snorts at him.

“Hush, you,” Leonard says smartly. 

Starfleet Captain knickers, paws at his bedding, and turns to investigate his empty feed bin. Keeping an eye on the colt’s hind legs Leonard opens the stall door and sidles in. He stares down at Jim, arms folded over his chest in silent judgment, and then nudges the kid’s side with his foot. He shoves a little harder when Jim doesn’t stir, and is treated to the sight of Jim flipping onto his back and stretching like a cat. A scruffy yet very attractive cat, that is, and Leonard ends up scowling at himself.

“Whozzit,” Jim slurs.

“What the hell are you doing sleeping in an occupied horse stall?”

Jim blinks at him sleepily and then cranes his head to see Starfleet Captain taking care of business in the opposite corner of the stall. He then gives Leonard a sheepish grin.

“Was just feeling nostalgic.”

“You sleep in horse stalls back in Iowa, too?” Leonard asks. “What, your house ran out of room or something?”

He regrets his words immediately when Jim’s face clouds over but it’s only a second; the kid takes a deep breath and then promptly starts coughing. Leonard rolls his eyes and drags Jim away from the dust motes floating up from the bedding. He doesn’t even protest when Jim swipes his coffee and gulps it down.

“No, I mean... had to sleep in his stall when he had the worst case of diarrhea we’d ever seen. Was fucking awful but near the end I’d wake up and find him standing over me. Kind of nice, you know, waking up to that.”

“We?”

“Me, Mom, and Sam. Older brother. He’s in Seattle.”

Leonard nods dismissively, then frowns. “He?”

His frown deepens when Jim nods to the chestnut now staring at them from inside the stall. “He was so dehydrated. Mom wanted to put him down, didn’t want him to suffer, but I kept saying no, I’ll stay with him and the vet, I’m not giving up on him.”

The thing about Leonard’s job is that when he has to deal with humans they’re the owners and trainers. Many times the owners are also the breeders, providing him with helpful insight into the horse’s history and whether the current ailment is linked to it. Otherwise he never has contact with the horse’s breeder. Quite frankly he doesn’t give a damn about the people. The horses matter more.

This isn’t like anything he’d encountered in his seven years at the racetrack. What the hell are the odds that the horse’s current groom raised him as a suckling foal, too? He thinks about the old Walter Farley classic, a fictional biography of Man O’ War told through the eyes of a nonexistent boy-groom who was in the foaling barn when he was born, and then snorts to himself at the unexpected parallel. At least now he can make sense of that funny feeling about both horse and groom being Iowans.

“You’re telling me you’re his breeder?” Leonard finally asks.

Jim nods, blue eyes resolute and even possessive. “Mom’s his listed breeder but I raised him until she sent him to Cali without telling me a single fucking thing-”

Starfleet Captain hollers for breakfast, and Leonard marvels at the sudden brilliantly honest smile dawning on Jim’s face as he looks at the colt.

“Guess I’ll have to tell you the story over breakfast,” he says. “Ours, not his. He wants his now.”

* * *

The way Jim Kirk tells it Starfleet Captain was never supposed to leave Iowa to be sold nor be named Starfleet Captain. The name Jim wanted was “Captain Tiberius”, a joke he shared with his father regarding the stern military man who was his grandfather and his father’s father. Starfleet Captain’s grand dam was the last horse his father bred and trained; before the fatal accident, George told Jim that he’ll reserve the name for Jim to use on any of the racehorses they breed and race. Jim had been reserving it every two years using money out of his own pocket to make sure the name was his and only his to use. He intended to bestow it upon the colt now named Starfleet Captain but while he was in Europe with his brother Sam and his new sister-in-law Winona consigned the yearling to Barretts and shipped him to California.

The name’s no longer reserved with the Jockey Club. A lot of things no longer are.

* * *

“Fascinating,” Spock says while watching Starfleet Captain canter around the track following his six furlong blowout. “That would explain why he became so manageable after Pike hired Kirk as a groom.”

“No kidding,” McCoy says.

He practically documented every bruise he earned from the horse’s numerous attempts to bleed him out. And then there was the hell the horse raised that chased Olsen away, and even Pike, a hands-on trainer who still managed to be totally involved despite being in a wheelchair, who enjoyed working with the problematic yearlings and two-year-olds Uhura sent his way, looked so _relieved_ when Jim asked for the job. And almost overnight Starfleet Captain went from hell on wheels to an agreeable creature, one that would stomp and rear on occasion to remind everyone that he’s still the boss. That’s all right for all hands involved, especially in light of the very real path he started burning to Churchill Downs.

“I believe he’s ready for the San Felipe,” Spock proclaims after another minute of oddly comfortable silence. He appears startled with his own uncharacteristically confident proclamation about the horse’s condition but no one’s begging to disagree. Starfleet Captain is the absolute picture of health, coat burnished under the cold Californian sun and rippling with muscle definition as he lopes around the track, refusing to obey Sulu’s command to slow down.

But when Kirk clips the lead shank onto his bridle and leads him down the chute to the backstretch he thinks he hears a slightly wet sound with each huff the horse takes.

* * *

“Something’s wrong,” Sulu declares as he brings the colt over to the rail, ending the two-mile gallop after just seven-eighths of a mile.

Spock is first on the track but Jim gets to the horse before him. He grabs the bridle and Starfleet Captain doesn’t fight for his head. His bright eyes stare back, untroubled, but the wet sound is there again with every breath he takes. 

“Explain, please,” Spock asks, eyes assessing the horse.

“He doesn’t feel like himself,” Sulu says. “You know how he gets before a race, but he wasn’t fighting me at all. I had to push to make him go and he’s breathing wrong. I started hearing it when we hit the far turn.”

With none of the other horses on the track nearby the three men can easily hear the strain in every lungful of air the colt takes. Jim tilts Starfleet Captain’s head towards him and narrows his eyes at the trickle of mucus running down the flared nostrils. Out of the corner of his eye he can see a few people gathering at the Clocker’s Corner, including a conspicuous mop of white hair. He shrugs off Baffert’s cool gaze and focuses on Starfleet Captain’s attempts to get into his jacket pocket for a mint.

“The draw is later this morning,” Spock says, more to himself than to anybody else. “But if he’s not in peak condition-”

“Pull him out,” Jim interjects. “Don’t run him. He’s not healthy.”

“I’m aware of that,” Spock says. “Bring him back and cool him down. Have Dr. McCoy scope him. I’ll inform them of our withdrawal from the race.”

* * *

“Lucky for you lot,” Leonard tells them later at Komack’s barn, “he only has the beginnings of a mild lung infection. A course of antibiotics should clear that up in no time.”

Jim visibly relaxes and looks fondly at the sullen horse. “Hear that?”

“How long will he be out of training?” Spock asks.

“Seven days, minimum. When he scopes clean I’m clearing him for light exercise. Until then he’s on stall rest, and change his bedding to something hypoallergenic, if possible. That’s about it.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Spock says. “If you’ll excuse me....”

The assistant trainer leaves, presumably to tell Nyota what to say if the press should come knocking and to call Pike.

Sulu sighs, disappointed, and says, “Was really looking forward to this Saturday. So’s Pavel.” A beat. “You know, I’m not one for superstitions but he hasn’t been having the easiest time this year.”

“It’s just plain bad luck and a wonky immune system, that’s what,” Leonard says. “We’re probably the least superstitious horsemen on the planet.”

“Except that Pike only wears those shoes on race days,” Sulu says. “You know which ones.”

Jim frowns, eyebrows bunching. “You mean-”

“They’re gonna look mighty fine on TV if we win the Derby,” Leonard says, now unable to see the image. “If we get there, that is.”

“We will,” Jim says. “Ten points for winning the El Camino, right? We just need to win the Santa Anita Derby and that’ll give us a cool hundred. We’re guaranteed a spot in the Derby.”

“What makes you so sure he’ll win the Derby and not come second or finish off the board?” Leonard asks. “The Santa Anita one, not the Kentucky.”

Something shifts in Jim’s face, the brassy optimism concentrating into a singular focus. He looks at the colt with a set jaw and says, “He’ll come out of that lung flu swinging-”

“No such thing as a _lung_ flu-”

“Shut up, you’re ruining the moment.”

Sulu stifles a laugh and Leonard rolls his eyes.

“He can do it. I know he can. You’ll see.”

* * *

Not many people see it.

The TVG and HRTV commentators remark on Starfleet Captain’s unfortunate luck, a given in the oldest game in town, before turning back analyze the fields for the San Felipe Stakes and the East Coast Derby prep it shares the day with, the Tampa Bay Derby. Just one columnist says more than a sentence about the red chestnut colt and it leaves people in Komack’s barn fuming.

“I’ve heard worse,” the veteran trainer says with a wave of his hand. His mount shuffles on his feet, bored with standing at the mouth of the chute instead of chasing after Komack’s charges. “Any horse climbing out of the smaller racetracks get the brunt of the criticisms. They’re just flashes in the pan until they come out and play with the so-called ‘big boys’.”

“Still don’t like it,” Starfleet Captain’s groom mutters, watching his other charge lope past them. Enterprise Racing still has a live one this weekend and she looks the part, doing her best to pull her exercise rider over her head.

“Your dad would just smile that smile of his and surprise their asses off on the big day,” Komack says cryptically and then clucks to his stable pony. The former California champion snorts and ferries Komack out to the track.

* * *

The Tampa Bay Derby, a Grade 2 run at a mile and one-sixteenths, awards fifty points and a sizeable purse to the winner. The favorite to win, Laurentian, had previously aced the eight-furlong Holy Bull Stakes at Gulfstream Park and finished second to Narada in last year’s Breeders’ Cup Juvenile. There’s no doubt that he’s Florida’s strongest hope for winning the roses, but the Sport of Kings has a funny way of relieving people of said hope.

As with each new year newcomers pop up on the radar, horses that couldn’t run their way out of a paper bag as two year olds blossoming into promising three year olds and one of them is a Tampa Bay local with a strange background. A British-bred horse, he was sent to the States to avoid the better bred Europeans and raced on the lawn for most of his two year old season. Despite having a renown turf sire he floundered on the green until his frustrated trainer threw him onto a dirt track and he blew away his competition by ten lengths a week before the new year. He came right back to romp in tougher allowance conditions, nearly breaking the track record for eight and a half furlongs, and his owner started smelling the alluring scent of Kentucky roses.

While the Derby winter book favorite Narada jogged around the Belmont training track, Starfleet Captain suffered through a lung infection in his borrowed stall, and Stellar Starbound walked to the receiving barn with the rest of the San Felipe field, Laurentian won the Tampa Bay Derby by a desperate head over the relentless Into Darkness. The two horses ran far ahead of the rest of the field - the track announcer hesitantly suggested a distance of at least thirteen lengths between them and the third place finisher - and slugged it out to the wire. Into Darkness easily passed Laurentian in the gallop out and people wondered who the real victor was.

* * *

Horse racing is called the Sport of Kings but that moniker is reserved for the upper echelon of the sport. What people see on TV on the first Saturday in May and in late November is a world away from the gritty reality, of the local breeders and owners struggling to make ends meet in an economy still clawing its way out of the economic recession, the trainers who plug away at the smaller tracks with their claimers and lowly allowance geldings, the aging gamblers and bettors who go to the track every day and wonder what will become of their beloved sport, the wasted racehorses that find themselves in kill pens waiting to leave for the slaughterhouses in Mexico and Canada. This is the cold reality of an industry orbiting around a nonhuman athlete, a living paradox that is at once an ultimate symbol of power and the most fragile of creatures.

And once in a while, the people on the outside, the people who only tune in for the big name races, see for themselves the tragedy of the so-called Sport of Kings.

* * *

The grandstand is unusually subdued, a gloom cast over the thousands that turned out for a chilly but sunny weekend of racing in the shadow of the San Gabriel Mountains. The track announcer asks for patience and the hosts of TVG shift uncomfortably in front of the rolling camera as everyone waits.

“We’ve just received word,” one of the hosts finally says, eyes darting over the scribbled notes on the card in his hand, “that Red Hood has been stabilized and will ship to the Alamo Pintado Equine Medical Center tonight. We won’t know until later if his injury is indeed catastrophic but his racing career is most certainly over.”

The horse that Nyota Uhura said had bad feet stands quietly in his stall, his fractured foot wrapped tightly in a splint. He is unaware that he may or may not be put down in the next twenty-four hours.

* * *

Leonard frowns at the knock on his motel room door; it’s ten and seven and he just wants to sleep. He pulls on his Ole Miss sweater and opens the door to find Jim on the other side. The kid wears a shell-shocked look, the kind he’s intimately familiar with, and so he simply opens the door all the way and steps aside. Jim slides in and huddles in a corner of the small room, hands shoved inside his jacket pockets.

“So,” Leonard says. “First time?”

Jim shakes his head. “Grew up on a horse farm, remember?” he says with a hollow laugh. “Well, what’s left of one.”

“But it’s not the same thing.” Leonard goes to one of his duffel bags and roots around for a small bottle. “Not the same as watching them take a bad step in the middle of a race and wonder why they only got three working feet. Why they can’t keep running like the others can.”

He holds out his precious bourbon but Jim doesn’t move, watches him warily from the chosen corner. With an inward sigh Leonard pulls off the cap and takes a sip, rolling the mouthful before swallowing. He sits on the edge of the bed, the bottle swinging from his fingers.

“My guess is comminuted fracture to both sesamoids,” he says quietly. “Only things going for Red Hood right now are that the skin’s still intact and he has a good, quiet mind. Otherwise....”

Chances are slim that a horse can survive multiple fractures to the sesamoids and subsequent loss of ankle support. If the doctors at Alamo Pintado find a reliable blood supply to the injured area the probability that Red Hood will survive rises just a tiny bit; even if they successfully fuse the ankle joint and stabilize the leg they still have to keep an eye out for laminitis in the other three feet. Goddamn horses and their goddamn complex interconnected musculoskeletal system.

“Any one of them could’ve taken that step,” Jim suddenly says. “Even Cap, if he ran.”

“Instead he’s cooped up in his stall and raising hell. Worst he’s had are sore shins and a thrown shoe.” And countless ridiculous allergic reactions that he’s pretty sure no equine ought to have.

“And a near-lethal case of diarrhea,” Jim adds. “He almost didn’t even make it his first year.”

Leonard raises an eyebrow. That again. The kid’s strangely fixated on that incident in the colt’s past. “That bad, huh?”

Scrubbing at his hair, Jim crosses the room and holds his hand out for the whiskey. “She said she’d never seen anything like it. He _should’ve_ died the second night, but he didn’t. Wouldn’t. You know how dangerous it is when a mare rejects her foal, right?”

Leonard nods, then, “He was rejected?”

“Had to nurse him, too, until we found a mare for him.” Jim swirls the amber in its glass bottle. “He’s too stubborn to quit. That’s what I figured, and that’s why I told Mom he’s a keeper, he could take us places. She disagreed.”

“That why you followed him out here?”

“I had to make sure he was in good hands, you know? Make sure he didn’t flounder in claimers because his trainer didn’t know any better.”

Jim finally takes a mouthful of whiskey and passes the bottle back. They commiserate in silence, trying and failing to forget how the San Felipe unfolded, how the speedy Red Hood held off all comers into the far turn and staggered when he switched leads while turning for home, how he collided with the East Coast shipper as he lost all support in his left foreleg, how he desperately tried to keep up with the field as it passed him and the unlucky Lucky Tapit. Stellar Starbound won the race, the winner’s share of the purse, and fifty points towards the Kentucky Derby but nobody analyzes his or Laurentian’s victory earlier in the day. Nobody talks about victories when reminded of racing’s cruel and unforgiving nature.

Jim leaves sometime after twelve and nobody bats an eyelash when they find him sleeping in Starfleet Captain’s stall the next morning.

* * *

“He’s cleared for light exercise,” McCoy tells Spock on the fifth day. “But if he starts showing signs of fatigue, stop him.”

“Of course. Thank you, doctor.”

Spock restricts Starfleet Captain to a light jog around the track and for the first three days the colt obeys his rider’s commands. On the fourth day his eyes brighten, his coat shines under the California sun, and he nearly bucks Sulu off on his way to the track. Sulu leaves a litany of curses in his wake as he first urges and then restrains the colt to a canter as they go clockwise into the far turn. After three more days of cantering Spock finally allows him to resume his daily two-mile gallops. Starfleet Captain moves like he’d never been sick in his life, ears flicking back and forth as he ferries Sulu round and round the dirt track. 

Uhura encounters a staff writer from the Blood-Horse on her way to the Clocker’s Corner and, when asked how she felt about his chances of making the Santa Anita Derby, crisply tells him that Starfleet Captain will make some noise come April.

* * *

“He is, as Nyota would say, the picture of perfect health,” Spock says. “But I have reason to believe he will not be fit for the Santa Anita Derby, which can compromise our chances of making it to Churchill Downs.”

 _”Is that so?”_ Pike says. _“What makes you say that?”_

“He hasn’t had a race since February and he is not the type of horse that can go thirty days or more between races. However there isn’t a suitable race between now and the first week of April. Jim insists on an eight-furlong breeze and while I am inclined to agree I’d still like your opinion on the matter.”

He frowns at his phone when Pike chuckles. _“You’re calling him ‘Jim’ now?”_

“We... may have established a rapport based on our mutual interest in Starfleet Captain’s best interest,” Spock says, picking his words with care. 

_“Well, Mr. Spock, if you both think he could use the workout then I won’t say anything against it. The last thing anybody wants is an unfit and unsettled horse.”_

“Agreed. Also, what are your thoughts on her selection in the fourth tomorrow?”

_“When has she ever put in a claim for a bad horse? I trust her judgment. Let’s hope we get lucky and nobody else wants the filly.”_

* * *

“I don’ even know what I’m doin’ here,”Scott says, his accent thickening with his increasing annoyance. “Here I was, mindin’ my own business an’ nailing shoes to one of Jerry’s nice old nags, then Mr. Pike rolls up, sayin’ I _had_ to come down here. Why? There’s already a farrier here; why do they need another?”

Starfleet Captain chuffs, tail swishing, and Jim shushes him. 

“Then he goes on an’ on about unit cohesion and how only _I_ understand his horses’ needs. Now, I like to think that I’m very good at keepin’ a horse’s feet nice an’ strong, ‘cause what’s a horse without his feet, but did I really have to drive for eight hours staring at nothing but cows?”

“Why did you drive eight hours?” Jim asks.

“He promised me a cut of the boy’s winnings,” the farrier replies as he finishes trimming the near hind hoof. “And a trip to Churchill Downs. I’ve never been to Kentucky, have you?”

“Nope.” 

Jim thinks back on the conversation with Sulu and Leonard about Pike’s awful shoes and superstitions. Who’s to say that Pike got the feeling that having his favorite people together might bring the horse the luck he needs?

“Plus, I’m shoein’ a once-in-a-lifetime horse,” Scott continues. “I’d be mad to let just anyone look after his feet.” He sneezes when Starfleet Captain flicks his tail at him. “Stop that! Get off it, I don’ need more dust allergies than what you lot stir up!”

* * *

There’s a cluster of trainers and reporters out in force when Komack, astride his striking stable pony, leads Starfleet Captain and Miss Farragut out to the track for their joint workout. Despite skipping the San Felipe the colt has managed to garner enough attention with subsequent gallops that one of the more famous turf writers placed Starfleet Captain right below his Derby Dozen.

 _“Call me crazy,”_ he wrote on for the Blood-Horse, _“but I think he’s worth another look. He’s won three of four races so far this year and Napa Grand Duke, who finished third to him in the El Camino Real Derby (GIII), came back to run a deceptively good second to Stellar Starbound in the San Felipe (GII). He’s a definite play in the Santa Anita Derby (GI) and if he actually wins he’s moving into my Derby Dozen.”_

The two horses warm up in tandem. Unlike previous workouts Sulu is on the sleek Miss Farragut; perched on Starfleet Captain is young Chekov, following the assistant trainer’s instructions to work the colt a fast mile. The duo pick up the pace as they enter the far turn and Spock clicks the timer in his hand as they pass the finish line the first time. 

In full flight Starfleet Captain and Miss Farragut charge into the clubhouse turn. From a distance one would have to squint to see the compact filly’s dark tail fanning out behind her; Starfleet Captain’s larger, rangier frame dwarfs her completely. She hangs on as the colt rattles off twelve seconds a furlong but by the time they pass the finish line a second time she’s fallen behind by a length and a half. The two gallop out into the clubhouse turn again, Starfleet Captain pulling further ahead while his ears flick back and forth.

Spock clicks the timer and glances at the time. His mouth twitches in a smile and he pockets it before turning and leaving the Clocker’s Corner.

* * *

The Grade 1 Florida Derby at Gulfstream Park is the first of the second round of Derby preps to offer a hundred points and a guaranteed starting position in the Kentucky Derby to the winner. At a mile and an eighth, it is the endgame for any Florida-based horse preparing for the Triple Crown.

Few are surprised that Laurentian wins it and a trip to Churchill Downs. Many are surprised by how. There is no romp, no display of speed and power. Instead it is an all-out brawl to the finish, five horses slugging it out over a tiring dirt track, and Laurentian nosing out two underachieving Florida-breds for the win. Into Darkness finishes an unlucky fourth and with just thirty points to his name his owner is forced to bypass the Kentucky Derby and zero in on Pimlico.

The Group 2 UAE Derby runs on the same day but in a different time zone. Nobody bats an eyelash when the Darley-owned Cease wins the mile and three-sixteenth contest because no horse ever won at Meydan Racecourse in Dubai and followed that act with a win in the Kentucky Derby an ocean away.

* * *

The Grade 2 Louisiana Derby takes place the next day at Fair Grounds Race Course, run at the same nine furlongs as the Florida Derby. It too offers a hundred points to the winner but nobody knows what to make of the 48-to-1 upset by Summer Warbird, last seen chasing Narada’s tail in the Withers up in New York and finishing second last in Risen Star Stakes back at Fair Grounds.

* * *

Santa Anita Derby Day is sunny, with white puffs in the blue sky and the smog a faint smudge on the horizon. Spock watches Starfleet Captain with a critical eye but can find no wrong in his stride, the rippling sheen of his golden coat, the brightness in his eyes. He came out of his early morning jog fresh and feisty, and he keeps bucking every few minutes as Kirk hotwalks him under the shedrow.

Uhura arrives at his side, her phone tucked under her arm. She hands Spock a cup of coffee and tracks the colt’s movements while sipping her latte. 

“What do you think?” she asks.

“I think,” he says, “we should book a flight to Louisville.”

She grins as the colt headbutts Kirk and tries to drag his groom back to his stall for breakfast.

* * *

This particular April weekend is perhaps the most newsworthy of the pre-Derby season, with two significant races running on opposite coasts.

The Grade 1 Wood Memorial Stakes at Aqueduct is the first to run. Six go to the post for the nine-furlong race but all eyes are on the heavy favorite, Narada. The dark bay horse towers over the field, stepping lightly and confidently onto the inner dirt track with his outrider. He looks every inch his two-point-five million dollar price tag and his race record is nothing to sneeze at; the only blip in his otherwise flawless career was a disastrous run in the Sanford Stakes as a two year old. The winner, Giant’s Supernova, won the Gotham Stakes a couple weeks back but everybody knows he’s no match for Narada.

And everybody knows how easily Narada handles the field. He sits off the streaking gelding Hustlin’ Man into the clubhouse turn, all along the backstretch, and into the far turn with Giant’s Supernova and the three other horses lagging far behind. Halfway around the turn Hustlin’ Man hits a wall and his stride falters with oncoming exhaustion. Narada easily assumes the lead and bounds away from the field down the homestretch. Behind him Giant’s Supernova makes it a race for second but all eyes are on Narada as he sails home by nine in near record time to establish himself as the favorite to win the Kentucky Derby.

* * *

The members of Enterprise Racing clustered in the saddling ring in the shadow of Seabiscuit behind the grandstand are already buzzing with excitement. Half an hour ago Miss Farragut clawed out a half-length victory in the Potrero Grande Stakes for older fillies and mares, establishing herself as a bona fide sprint star. Uhura fairly glows with pride as it was her who found the Sierra Sunset filly at another Barretts October Yearling Sale. All she needs now is for Starfleet Captain to win the Santa Anita Derby to complete her personal hat trick.

Of the seven horses going to post the ones people watch at length are the San Felipe winner Stellar Starbound, the El Camino Real Derby winner Starfleet Captain, the stakes-placed Napa Grand Duke, and the East Coast shipper Lucky Tapit, who didn’t finish in the San Felipe after being body-slammed by the ill-fated Red Hood. 

“Well I’m off to make a bet or two,” Scott says after five minutes. “Any takers?”

Sulu digs into his pocket for his wallet. “Five on a Cap-Starbound-Duke trifecta.”

“Ten for a Cap-Lucky-Starbound-Duke superfecta,” Uhura says, handing Scott two bills.

Sulu hesitates. “Lucky Tapit? Really?”

“He’s a bridesmaid. He can’t pass the lead horse but he sure as hell will beat out the others,” she says.

“I wouldn’t doubt her logic,” Spock offers. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Meanwhile McCoy finds himself in the less-than-enviable position of holding onto Starfleet Captain’s head and avoiding the reach of his teeth while Kirk saddles him. “I’m a vet, damn it, not a groom. This is your job.”

“But since you’re not here to monitor today’s horses or hoard samples of their pee for diabolical purposes, you might as well get nice and friendly with Cap,” Kirk says cheekily. 

“Last time I tried to be nice and friendly he almost drew blood,” the vet grouses.

“That means he likes you,” Kirk says. He waits for the colt to exhale before tightening the girth. “Spock! How are you feeling? Any butterflies in your stomach?”

“No, as I don’t recall consuming any,” the assistant trainer replies. “Anything unusual, doctor?”

“He tried to bite my fingers off,” McCoy reports dryly. “Other than that he’s physically sound. Can’t say the same about his mind.”

People in the adjacent stalls look at them curiously. Two stalls down Lucky Tapit bucks off his saddle and squeals. Stellar Starbound watches the crowd with a calm eye and Napa Grand Duke keeps sucking in air whenever his trainer tries to saddle him.

The call for the horses to enter the saddling ring couldn’t come soon enough. The crowd in the paddock is smaller than average for a Santa Anita Derby weekend but it’s loud and lively, trading opinions on the colts as they follow each other across the paddock and around the ring to stop in front of their respective parties. Starfleet Captain’s neck is bowed, teeth champing at the bit; he paws at the ground while the jockeys get a leg up onto their mounts. Chekov grins and pats his arched neck before gathering up the reins in both hands. Kirk removes the lead shank and steps back as the horses walk to towards the chute and the racetrack.

Scott fights through the crowd to reach them at the rail on the other side of the grandstand. He holds a fistful of tickets and distributes them to their respective owners. Somewhere to their right the hosts of HRTV and TVG discuss the pros and cons of the Santa Anita Derby field as well as the results of the Wood Memorial in context of the greater Derby picture. A truck lugs the starting gate down the homestretch and positions it while the outriders lead the horses around the backstretch and into the far turn.

“So,” McCoy says while the horses wait, some more impatiently than others, to load into the gate, “how do you think he’ll win?”

“Seven lengths, easy,” Kirk says. “Lucky Tapit’s on fire today; he’s nosing out Stellar Starbound for second.”

Sulu grits his teeth and pretends not to see Uhura smirk.

For once the horses load without incident and leave the gate without incident. Napa Grand Duke rockets to the front and opens a two length lead as the field enters the clubhouse turn. The others shuffle for position; Stellar Starbound ends up on the rail for a ground-saving trip, a half length in front of Lucky Tapit, with a Cal-bred named Acclaimed Tiz tailing him. Starfleet Captain lopes along on the outside of allowance winner Fifty Idiot Proof in second last, ears flicking back and forth, as the field enters the backstretch. Napa Grand Duke carves out sensible fractions, evidence that he’s learned to relax on the lead since his time up at Golden Gate Fields, and he maintains it down the backstretch. 

As they reach the far turn Stellar Starbound creeps up on his inside, inch by inch, and suddenly bulls his way forward halfway around it. Napa Grand Duke drifts out as fatigue sets in, leaving the way open for Stellar Starbound to take the lead. Lucky Tapit follows the dark bay colt around the far turn and the two hit the homestretch together, with Lucky Tapit hugging the rail. Napa Grand Duke flounders behind them but fights to stay even with Acclaimed Tiz and Fifty Idiot Proof, forcing Chekov to take Starfleet Captain to the far outside and sweep around the three horses. The seventh horse is never a factor, plodding in dead last.

The grandstand comes to life with a slow-building roar as Stellar Starbound and Lucky Tapit appear to battle for the lead, but no matter how hard Lucky Tapit’s jockey scrubs his neck or snaps at his right flank with the whip the chestnut colt refuses to pass Stellar Starbound. They stare at each other as they hurtle towards the finish line and Stellar Starbound starts to break under the strain and the inability to shake off the East Coast shipper, the one they call the bridesmaid. His desperate strides falter, little by little, and even the track announcer’s voice rises an octave in surprise. 

Nobody notices the threat bearing down on Lucky Tapit and Stellar Starbound from the middle of the track until the track announcer chokes on his surprise and shouts, “And Starfleet Captain’s coming along like an express train!”

Stellar Starbound’s jockey almost falls off his horse jerking his head around to stare at Starfleet Captain blowing by them, Chekov clinging to both rein and mane for dear life. In the blink of an eye Starfleet Captain seizes the lead and lengthens it by one, two, three, four, five, six-

“-and three-quarters!” the track announcer declares. “Lucky Tapit and Stellar Starbound in a photo for second and Napa Grand Duke finishes fourth. Hold all tickets....”

Uhura fist-pumps as she pulls her phone out and starts dialing. Kirk slaps Spock on the shoulder and hugs McCoy before slipping under the radar and jogging out onto the track, lead shank swinging from his hands. He’s followed closely by Sulu, who keeps staring at the board in hopes that Stellar Starbound still held on for second. 

Chekov’s grin stretches from ear to ear as he guides Starfleet Captain to his groom. He flashes the grandstand a thumbs-up and accepts a high five from Sulu.

“We’re going to Louisville!” Sulu whoops.

Starfleet Captain startles and the people at the rail roar as the colt gathers himself and hops forward. Chekov quickly brings him back under control and Kirk clips the lead shank on, tugging him towards a waiting bucket of lukewarm water. While Uhura talks with a TVG commentator about Pike’s notable absence Spock hands a grumbling vet a soaked sponge.

“I’m a vet, not a goddamn groom,” McCoy mutters under his breath but he’s smiling as he squeezes water over the colt’s head and in his mouth. 

“Keep telling yourself that, Len,” Kirk says, patting the colt’s damp flank, and plucks the sponge out of McCoy’s hand to wash the sweat off the colt’s withers. He tosses the sponge back into the bucket and, upon picking up the cue from Spock and Uhura, leads the victorious chestnut to the winner’s circle and the waiting cameras and reporters. 

Scott trails the lot, watching the tote board flash the official results with a certain amount of glee. 

“Well, what d’ya know,” he says to no one in particular. “Guess Pike’s right after all. I _am_ the lucky charm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The newly instated point system that determines which horses will go to the Kentucky Derby.](http://www.brisnet.com/edgeped/roadto2013derby_oaks.pdf)
> 
> [An overview of lung diseases and respiratory ailments in racehorses.](http://www.thoroughbredtimes.com/horse-health/2006/november/28/lung-disease-in-the-racehorse.aspx)
> 
> [A primer on the type of catastrophic injury Red Hood sustained.](http://www.thoroughbredtimes.com/horse-health/2005/december/10/sesamoid-injury-can-mean-disaster.aspx)


End file.
